


The Hunt

by spacebuck



Series: A sorcerer's tale [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Bottom!Bucky, Canon-Typical Violence, Collab, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Magical Creatures, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, Reunions, WIP, Witcher AU, a magic raven who is basically a dad friend, game-typical violence, handwavey fantasy medieval stuff, no knowledge of the books/game/tv show required to understand this, not abandoned i just forgot how to write, sorcerer bucky, top!steve, witcher steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 09:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebuck/pseuds/spacebuck
Summary: Smoke curls around his wrist, caressing the skin with a gentle touch. There’s a gentlecaw, then the Raven is landing on his shoulder, smoke swirling down until it’s tangible, heavy. Claws dig into the leather of his coat, but Bucky doesn’t look, just lifts a hand. There’s a scroll between his fingers, curled tight enough to be gripped by the Raven’s claws, and the Raven takes it with a chitter of his beak.“Yes, it has to be this way,” Bucky says in response, eyes on the figure below. The silver sword glints as it swings, cleaving apart the shrieking swarm of harpies. “He can’t know what happened.”There’s another chitter, then an indignant squawk as Bucky straightens abruptly. The Raven hops his way down to the fencepost Bucky had been leaning on, flutters his wings.“I don’t care,” Bucky responds. “Hecannotknow.”





	The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in the works for over a year now, in some way, shape, or form. the idea sat in my head for about six months, and i blurted it all out to one of my best friends, who then went and created art for it and i, therefore, had to write it! she's been amazing both in terms of ranting about this fic and about plotting out the series as a whole.
> 
> Plus its been exactly a year since the art posted! 
> 
> [art by the lovely frostbitebakery](https://frostbitebakery.tumblr.com/post/175823335071/two-things-only-the-greatest-fools-do-throw)
> 
> This chapter fulfils my stucky bingo prompt of "reunited" as well!   
> 
> 
> this is very much a wip, and i have intentions of it being a series with each story able to be read somewhat independently, with it's own individual arc. most of these will be moderate in length, however, this one is longer so it's getting split up!
> 
> most of the game things will be explained as the story progresses, but if you'd rather know upfront here's what you need to know for this chapter:
> 
> \- magical beings exist in this world, and are mostly left alone unless they attack humans  
> \- witchers are monster hunters, and to match the abilities of the monsters they hunt they go through a number of trials at a young age which strip out their emotions, but give them enhanced strength, agility, perception, senses, healing properties, longevity, poison resistance, etcetc, and low level magic known as "signs". they are no longer seen by regular humans as being human, and one of the physical mutations they get during this process is a slit pupil, like a cats. they're usually feared and shunned in equal measure.  
> \- witcher potions either heal or enhance one or more of their already enhanced abilities, temporarily. they're dangerous to regular humans  
> \- sorcerers are very powerful witches, and both are users of magic. in the games these are only women, however, this is fic so that's what bucky is (and how he gets this way is explained during the fic). their abilities often match witchers to some degree, and they are just as long-lived. they're often better received than witchers are.  
> \- kikimore are a cross between a spider and a crab, but the size of a medium dog. not pleasant.
> 
> here we go!

Smoke curls around his wrist, caressing the skin with a gentle touch. There’s a gentle _caw_ , then the Raven is landing on his shoulder, smoke swirling down until it’s tangible, heavy. Claws dig into the leather of his coat, but Bucky doesn’t look, just lifts a hand. There’s a scroll between his fingers, curled tight enough to be gripped by the Raven’s claws, and the Raven takes it with a chitter of his beak.

“Yes, it has to be this way,” Bucky says in response, eyes on the figure below. The silver sword glints as it swings, cleaving apart the shrieking swarm of harpies. “He can’t know what happened.”

There’s another chitter, then an indignant squawk as Bucky straightens abruptly. The Raven hops his way down to the fencepost Bucky had been leaning on, flutters his wings.

“I don’t care,” Bucky responds. “He _cannot_ know.”

The sounds of fighting die down, and Bucky watches as the man below straightens, wipes the black blood off his sword. It slides into its sheath with a soft _shck_ that Bucky can pick up even from this distance, then the man turns, looks up. Unerring.

Bucky stands tall as the man looks at him, then, as the man starts to close the distance between them, Bucky steps back. A flick of his fingers and a portal opens behind him, glowing a faint blue. There’s a crackle of ozone, and Bucky turns with one last look at the man below.

There’s a yell from below, the “Bucky!” carrying further than it should have, and Bucky hesitates, before stepping through the portal, letting his magic take him away.

His next stop is at an inn, the portal leading to a hidden corner of the yard. It’s a small town, no more than a hundred people, farmers and a blacksmith and a healer. There’s not even enough traffic through for a general store, the inn selling provisions to travellers and the townspeople mostly trading between them.

It’s small, but there’s something dark hanging over it. It’s why he’s here.

Bucky closes the portal with another flick of his fingers, leaving The Raven on the other side, with its note. They’re tied together, the Raven an aspect of his magic, so he’s not worried that it’ll get lost on its journey back to him.

Bucky dusts himself off then walks around to the front of the inn and through the main door, ducking a low beam. The music continues but all chatter stops, townspeople staring at him as he straightens again. He ignores the looks he gets, the whispering that starts up once he starts to walk forward.

“Greetings, room for a weary traveller?” He asks the innkeeper as the man turns, smiles a little at the double-take.

The man stares for a second, then his brain must kick back in, because he’s coming forward, leaning against the bench that separates them. “Aye, food and ale too, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

Bucky snorts, pulls out his coin purse, hands over the amount the innkeeper rattles off, knowing damned well it’s higher than what the man would usually charge. Before he puts his money away, he pulls out a gold coin, worth ten of what he just paid, sets it on the bench between them. The innkeeper stills.

“Not far behind me is a man,” Bucky starts, “A Witcher.”

That has the effect he expects, the man gasping, looking torn between happiness and dread. “He and his horse will need food, lodging. Treat him with respect, take none of his money, and tell him nothing of me. He will help you with your… situation.”

The innkeeper blinks at that, and Bucky tips his head. Waiting.

It doesn’t take long for the man to come to a decision, nodding sharply, eyes flicking between Bucky and the coin on the wood.

Bucky slides it over, lets go, and it disappears into the man’s coin purse in the following heartbeat. “Pleasure doing business with you,” Bucky says as he steps back. “If the food and drink could be brought to my room, it would be appreciated.”

**

Bucky’s gone the next morning before the sun has fully risen. He nods at the innkeeper as he leaves, hesitates in the doorway. “Remember,” he says, glancing back. “Tell him nothing of me.”

“Nothing at all,” The innkeeper says cheerily, “Of course, Master Witch.”

Bucky scowls at the title, but brings a portal out, calls to the Raven as he steps through. The Raven pulls Bucky to him and he ends up on the side of a road, a few miles outside the town he’d just left. There’s a could of dust up ahead, slowly disappearing in the direction of the town. “He’s getting faster,” he comments idly, and hears a _caw_ as the Raven circles him lazily, before dropping down to land on his forearm.

“Did he say anything?”

A chitter, and Bucky sighs, shakes his head. “Of course. Pig-headed man. I’m not going to let him catch up.”

A squawk.

“I’m _not_ ,” Bucky repeats, and the Raven just gives him a look, entirely disbelieving, before slowly shifting out, dissolving into smoke that sneaks its way through the seams of Bucky’s clothing, returning to his arm.

Bucky shifts a little, scratches the place the Raven settles, then tips his head, looking at the sky, counting the hours.

Another portal, ozone burning his nostrils a little with its sting, and he steps through.

**

The next week, the same process. Bucky watches as the Witcher puts an end to the horde of kikimore, clattering legs and beady eyes no longer directed at the villagers and their cattle.

Bucky watches from the mouth of the cave as he does it, leaning his shoulder against the wall. God knows what's on there, but he does it anyway, keeping to the dark. It's not like anywhere in the cave is hidden from the Witcher, not with his eerie, cat-like eyes, so the least Bucky can do for himself is be dramatic. The crashing stops, the clicking of mandibles finally silenced, and Bucky brings a portal up behind him. The Witcher hates portals, Bucky knows that like it's a piece of himself. The Witcher hates portals, won't go through of his own accord. So, he doesn't bother to hide it or mask the hum of his magic.

"I know you're there," the Witcher says. His voice is low, scratchy, harsher than Bucky remembers. "I know what you're doing. Why?"

Bucky regrets staying. The Witcher is still, surrounded by the carcasses of those horrific insectoids, barely breathing, as though he's just been out for a stroll. He's impassive, and that's what hurts the most. Bucky wants it, wants the Witcher to move past what they had. It still hurts to see it happening.

"Because," he says before he can help himself, words clawing out of his chest before he can stop them. "Because I have to make it right."

He steps back, the Raven sliding off his skin into the world. The Witcher whips around as he does, takes a few steps forward. They're close, so close Bucky can see the individual strands of his hair in the light from the portal. The last thing he sees as he sends the Raven to the Witcher is the sadness in his eyes, deep enough to make what's left of Bucky's soul ache.

**

He dreams of Steve.

He dreams of a young boy, all fire and sharp edges. Dreams of the smile on his face when he knew what he would become. Dreams of the crack of bone and tooth as he tried not to scream as it happened. Dreams of the screams he couldn't hold back.

He wakes in a cold sweat, throwing himself upright. Breath ragged, he covers his face with a hand, flinching at the sharp chill of the night air sneaking under the covers. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, lets the coolness seep into his bones, and his hand comes away wet. "Shit," he whispers into the quiet.

Bucky grabs his timepiece, frowns at the hour. He's not about to get any more sleep, he knows it, so he kicks off the covers, tries not to feel like they're strangling him, feels it anyway. Finally free, he sits at the edge of the bed and lets his head hang down. He can’t say it’s been a while, not when he dreams of Steve every other night. The man had a way of crawling into Bucky’s head, taking up a spot in the corner like he belonged there – and once, far too long ago, he had.

But he'd been dragged out, cut away along with everything else that had made Bucky _Bucky_. He wasn’t sure if Steve would even want the battered husk that was left. Honestly, he’s sure that Steve would be obliged to put him down at this point, and he’s not entirely sure there’s enough of the boy he knew for him to guess at Steve’s decisions anymore.

Dark smoke streams off his shoulder with a mind of its own, already disapproving, and Bucky sighs as the Raven takes shape on his knee. “I know,” he says, and the Raven squawks in disapproval. “Not happening.”

The Raven chitters at him, beak clacking together unnervingly. Bucky reaches out and holds his beak closed. It doesn’t help, the Raven part of him, and he can still feel the annoyance coming off the bird, the disapproval in his gaze. He softens his grip, slides his fingers up to scratch gently at the feathers at the back of the Raven’s head.

“He’ll hate me,” Bucky says eventually into the quiet. “When he finds out.” The Raven gives him a look, the one where he’s calling Bucky an idiot. “He’s honour-bound to put me down when he sees this,” he adds as he lifts his hand, twists it as the moonlight catches on the ridges of scar tissue. “I don’t remember it, but it doesn’t take a Witcher to work out what happened.”

He doesn’t wait for the Raven to reply, stands instead, leaving the Raven squawking indignantly as he flutters over to the dresser. Bucky crosses to the window, pulls the curtain open the rest of the way, looks out over the countryside surrounding this iteration of the same country town as always. Nothing moves, the only noises the quiet creaking of the inn, the breathing of the other travellers.

He shakes his head, reaches for his glaive, resting by the bed. It's easy, so easy to fall into the routine of it, push his bed back with his foot to give himself room, settle into a stance his body knows without thinking. He swings it around, keeping loose, following his usual morning pattern, but his mind is still wound, caught up on Steve.

He knows that a happily ever after isn't feasible, if it ever had been. He wasn’t going to get to ride into the sunset with Steve – or anyone else. He wasn’t going to get his friend back. He wasn’t going to get a lot of things. He just hopes that he’ll get the chance to do as much good as he had done bad before his choices catch up to him.

His inattention nearly costs him a broken nose, and he lets the glaive swing back down until one edge is lightly resting on the wooden floor. Magic sparks in response to his frustration, and he growls to himself, at his own weakness.

The Raven chirps from his spot on the dresser, a gentle reminder, and Bucky turns to give him a piece of his mind when he stills. The Raven is sitting on top of his gauntlet, talons digging into the leather that’s barely visible under the plating. Another chirp, more pointed this time, and Bucky scowls, sets the glaive on the bed. The Raven hops out of the way, and he grabs the gauntlet. It reacts like it usually does, a jarring, grating feeling in the bones of his arm like it’s been startled into wakefulness, before it settles, matching the resonance of his magic. Just holding it helps, magic settling like a contented cat, and he sighs, looks at the bundle of clothes he’d left out. “How am I gonna do this?” he asks the room, and the Raven’s unhelpful chittering laughter is the only answer he gets.

It’s awkward, but he manages to mostly get dressed without letting his fingers slide off the metal. He has to let go twice, and each time his magic responds, crackling to life. As he pulls his arms through his shirtsleeves it rattles the windows in the still morning. Putting on his coat has the floor shifting and shuddering under him.

Bucky shoves the gauntlet on as soon as he’s got his coat on, the leather and metal as familiar as the hand left undamaged. His magic immediately settles, going from a shifting threat to biding its time. The gauntlet’s not perfect, doesn’t completely tame his power when it truly decides to be a menace, but it helps enough on the other days. Enough that he can’t get rid of it, no matter how much he wants to. So, he keeps it despite the memories it drags to the surface, shoves his wants aside to protect everyone around him, and goes on with his day.

**

He knows something’s wrong almost immediately. Not with the Witcher, but with himself. There’s enough space between them that the shrieks of the sirens aren’t getting to his head, far enough away that he’s not a target, but as he watches the Witcher draw his sword Bucky feels the first pulse of it.

His eyes narrow, his brow furrows. The Witcher says something – probably witty, probably full of sass – and his voice carries to where Bucky’s standing, even if the words don’t quite make it. The first swing of the Witcher’s blade leaves an echoing cut through Bucky’s mind, and he hisses out a breath. Fingers press to his temple, slide to the bridge of his nose, and he closes his eyes, trying to find the source of the pain.

It’s not physical, he works out fairly quickly. Not magical either. The Witcher hums, a low sound that carries across the clifftop, and Bucky feels his magic respond, reaching out before Bucky can stop it.

The Witcher uses a Sign on the final siren, sending it plummeting to the ground in a burst of flame. He barely waits long enough to deliver the final blow before he’s turning on his heel, running as fast as his feet will carry him.

Running towards Bucky.

It hits him in that moment, hunches him forward as it moves over him in a wave. The memory that’s been working its way free since that night. Steve’s first hunt. A sword far sharper than a thirteen-year-old boy should have. The screeching as he stood his ground against a small handful of sirens. The panic as that group had called for help.

Bucky running into the middle of it, knowing he had to protect Steve with everything he had.

There’s a hand on his arm in the memory, and it takes him a second to realise it’s not _just_ the memory. The hand rubs up his arm, and it’s comforting. More that it should be, that’s for sure.

“Buck,” the Witcher says, _Steve_ says, and it sends another sliver of pain lancing through his head.

He staggers back, breaking the contact, and he can’t help it, his next breath comes out on a sob as Steve reaches for him. “Don’t touch me!”

The part of his brain that isn’t in control wonders at the panic in his voice. Marvels at the way Steve just lifts his hands, acquiescing in a way that is so completely _not Steve_ that the rest of his mind recoils again.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just lets his magic take over, calling a portal and letting it take him _away_ , take him somewhere _safe_.

It doesn’t take him far. A clearing, soft light filtering through wide-spread branches, the sound of waves crashing in the distance. The portal collapses around him as he stumbles out of it. He hits the ground, knees thudding into the dirt, hands still clutching at his head. He digs the fingers of his right hand in until his nails bite at his scalp, but it’s not enough to fight back against whatever has him in its grip.

There’s a childhood he doesn’t remember sitting between the strands of the childhood he does. Steve standing between the groups of men yelling, his face in the middle of hands hitting Bucky’s face and leather hitting his skin.

Things separate, eventually. Steve, smiling like the sun, blazing gold hair all Bucky can see as he grabs Bucky’s hands, hauls him up. _You’re too fast, Buck_ , he’d say, laughing just to laugh, before the joy had been meticulously stripped out of them both. _Take your time, there’s no rush_.

Bucky running, no Steve in sight, no sun to light his way. Running up step after step in the dark, knowing what would happen if they caught him. Knowing the punishment for being too slow. He trips, still in the awkwardness of youth, stumbling forward. Scrapes his hands on stone as he manages to keep his feet. Pushes himself off, breathing harsh in his ears. Words echoing in his mind, _one foot after the other Buck, you can do it_ , but he doesn’t remember the owner of that voice. Doesn’t remember anything except the feeling in his chest as the words come to him, warm and soft. He grits his teeth and keeps running.

The pain in his head fades as the memories split, as he stops fighting them. It’s not everything – not by a long shot. There’s a gaping hole in his memory, from somewhere between Steve and _them_. Another between what he knows he did and when he escaped, years and years of drone-like servitude that he’s not even sure he _wants_ back. He’s seen the numbers; he’s seen the aftermath. That’s enough, he thinks. Enough for now, at least.

He gets to his feet. It takes him a few moments to steady, but he gets there, and once he’s properly upright he calls for his magic. It fights him but the Raven comes anyway, smoke slithering out from under his jacket, already giving off the air of displeasure before he’s even fully formed.

Claws clack against the metal of his gauntlet, and Bucky can’t help but scowl. The Raven scowls right back, in his own birdy way. “Shut up,” he says before the Raven can speak its mind, “and find him.”

**

It’s days later when he gets word of a griffin preying on a keep. The keep itself is fine, the lord’s walls high enough to deter the beast, but the farmland around it is an easy target. It’s close enough that it’d be an irresistible target, and once Bucky walks into the keep itself, he can see he’s right.

Steve’s horse is in the stable when Bucky arrives, and Bucky stops, stares at her for a minute. He doesn’t know her name, knows it can’t be the same horse that Bucky remembers Steve getting at the tender age of twelve, but he greets her like an old friend just the same. She takes one look at him and turns her nose up to him, barely paying him any attention until he flexes his magic, finds the sugar cubes in the tack room and calls one to him. It appears in his still-outstretched hand, and there’s a slight pop as it displaces air to do so. It’s enough to get the mare’s attention, and as she snuffles it out of his hand, he can’t help but stroke the soft hair between her eyes, send the slightest tendril of magic into her as he murmurs, “Look after him.”

He leaves the stable as he entered it, meandering, stopping at a few other stalls and offering the occupants the same treat. No one sees him as he leaves, makes his way down to the guard barracks.

A gold coin gets him access to the Captain despite the hour, and when the portly man is in front of him, Bucky can’t help but sigh. “Your griffin problem,” he says, and the man cuts him off before he can go any further, looking Bucky up and down.

“Already got someone looking into it. You can try to beat him to it, but the Captain’s the best at what he does. You’re not likely to get there first.”

“The… Captain?” Bucky says, an eyebrow raised, and the guard captain leaks information like wineskin after it’s made one too many rounds about the camp.

“’S what they call him. Better than ‘The Butcher’ at any rate. The Witcher with the yellow hair. Scar on his face,” the man drags his finger down from the forehead, over his eye, then moves his finger to the centre of his chest, sketches a shape as he says, “Star on his chest.”

“Why do they call him ‘the Butcher’?” Bucky can’t help but ask, mind tripping over itself to try and find a logical reason for the Steve he once knew to earn the moniker and drawing a blank.

“A while ago, when I was still earning my stripes, we heard about a Witcher that went mad one day, like the spirits had got him. Killed a bunch of people, got himself run outta town.” The man shrugged like it was old news, like it hadn’t just knocked the foundations out from under the precarious tower of memories Bucky was building. “Anyways, since he got involved in the independence wars he’s been known as the Captain more than anything.”

Bucky hummed like it was just mildly interesting, tucked his hands back in his pockets. Lets a drawl slide into his voice, starting to match the man in front of him but not quite there. “Well if he’s on the case, I‘m not sure I’m needed here. Guess I’ll be on my way.”

The Captain doesn’t protest, and Bucky wanders off like he had nowhere to be before ducking behind a building to call a portal. He steps into it and sets off to find the nest.

He’s not as good a tracker as Steve certainly is, but he has his magic and he uses that to his full advantage. He enhances his eyesight and hearing with a spell, closes his eyes and focuses on the world around him. It takes a few moments to get used to the feeling of it, to filter out his own breathing, the beat of his heart. He tips his head, listening, hears the chitter of a beak, the heavy thump of wings too large to be even the biggest birds around. He sets off in that direction, using portals when he gets bored of walking until he’s close enough to need to mask his scent with another wave of his hand. He crouches near a thick tree trunk, willing his shadow to meld into the gnarled trunk, when the griffin flies overhead, heading northwest at speed. Given the lack of light in the sky Bucky knows they can’t be too far from the nest, so he switches hands, pulls a knife from his belt.

It’s dangerous to do this so close to another magical being but Bucky can’t risk not finding the spot again. He spreads his fingers and drags the knife across the pads of them, waiting until the blood wells thick before drawing a rune on the tree he’s next to. He blows on his fingers, cuts healing over into pink skin, then wipes the knife on his pants before sheathing it.

Standing, Bucky doesn’t stick around long enough to find out if he’s been caught, summoning a portal and returning to the inn on the edge of town, outside the keep walls.

**

The night doesn’t rest easy, and Bucky tosses and turns for most of it. He gives up an hour before sunrise, stands and goes through his usual stretches. The skin around his shoulder is stiffer than usual, pulling as he lifts his arms above his head. He rubs at it while he works, pressing into scarred skin to try and loosen it up. It doesn’t go as well as he hopes, so he gives up on the normal methods. There’s a certain sense of irony in using the magic that caused the scarring to help with it, but as the muscle and skin ease Bucky can’t help but sigh in relief.

He pushes himself in his morning session, shifting around the furniture he can’t move, dodging it as if it were people fighting with him rather than against him. It’s an experience Bucky’s never had, but with Steve, he can see himself there at his side, can see-

He cuts himself off, pulling his glaive to a stop across his back. There’s no point in thinking about that, he tells himself, not when it’s never going to happen.

**

That afternoon, Bucky watches as the Witcher, as _Steve_ , fights the griffin. The way he’s moving is almost showy, a step followed by a spin of his blade that leaves the silver glinting in the sun. He’s quick, faster than the griffin by a long shot, and even when the creature spits acid Steve doesn’t seem bothered.

He’s just dodged another claw swipe when the griffin takes off, wings beating hard and heavy. Within a minute it’s gone from sight, and Steve drops to one knee.

Bucky can’t help but step forward a little from his spot further up the hill, eyes narrowing until Steve pulls something out of his pouch. It’s a familiar bottle, small with a long, thin neck, and the liquid inside is almost violently green. Steve doesn’t hesitate, pulling the cork out and draining it before tucking the bottle back into the pouch at his belt.

When the Witcher stands again he almost seems to shimmer, the air around him distorting with magic for a few moments before the effects fade.

Then he looks over his shoulder, right up at Bucky, and his teeth glint white as he grins. The thumping of wings becomes audible as he lifts his sword, touches the flat of it to his forehead in a clear salute. Then he turns to face the oncoming threat, the shriek of an angry griffin echoing around the hills. It comes bursting out of the trees, wings snapping open and fanning out as it tries to get its claws between it and Steve.

Steve’s swing actually knocks the monster off balance, the power of the thunderbolt potion running through him. Bucky’s seen the effects of this one, knows it doesn’t end pretty for whatever’s in a Witcher’s path after it’s been ingested. Bucky gets a flash of him facing off against Steve, both of them lanky and awkward. Steve more so, his growth spurt had finally hit him almost three full months after the trial of the grasses stripped him from the inside out, given him a body to match his spirit. Or, at least the beginnings of one – he hadn’t grown to ten feet tall and woken up with muscles the size of a fiend, but he didn’t have to fight just to keep pace with the other witchlings.

Everything had been going perfectly for them until Bucky’s magical strength had finally revealed itself. Until Bucky had been sent away to study that power. Until their caravan had been ambushed less than a day’s hard ride from the keep.

Bucky shakes his head sharply to drive the memories away, focus back on the Steve of the present. The griffin is worn down, mostly grounded, one wing pierced in a way that keeps it limited to the few hops and flaps it’s currently doing.

Which doesn’t make sense, really, because Bucky can hear – oh.

Oh no.

Bucky drops to a crouch, twisting on the spot as a second griffin flies overhead. He grips his glaive, removes it from the bindings keeping it on his back, swings it around, but the griffin doesn’t seem at all interested in him. Instead, it heads straight for Steve.

Bucky refuses to watch Steve die.

The griffin is flying faster than Bucky could hope to run, so he does the next best thing, spinning a portal in front of him that leads him straight to Steve.

One step and he’s at Steve’s back, close enough that the first griffin’s rancid breath is all he can smell for a good ten seconds. Bucky does his best to put it out of his mind, says, “At your back,” so Steve doesn’t swing at him out of instinct, and raises his blade to parry the claws heading right for Steve’s head.

It’s jarring, sends a shock down the handle of the glaive and into his bones, but he holds fast, twists and shoves upwards. The second griffin disengages with a shriek, thudding into its mate and sending them both rolling into the ground.

Bucky slides his back foot a little further backwards, opening his hips as he raises his glaive. The Raven melts off his skin, circles once before flying up out of reach to wait for his moment.

There’s a beat of time when nothing happens. Bucky uses it to glance back, finds Steve a few feet away, crouched like he’s rolled there. His eyes are wide, pupils slit, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak.

The griffins interrupt him though, detangling from each other and lumbering to their feet. Steve follows suit, silver sword at the ready. “No one thought to mention that there were actually _two_ griffins,” Steve says under his breath, circling away from Bucky.

It’s obvious that he’s trying to draw the creatures’ attention and it's mostly working, so Bucky takes advantage of it. He pulls a small chunk of silver out of one pocket, presses it tight between two fingers. The leather of the gauntlet fingers lets Bucky feel the silver as it heats up, and once he’s heated it enough, he pushed magic out into it. Then he touches it to the handle of his glaive.

The silver flows out like water and Bucky leaves it to coat his blades, circles back until the griffins are between the two of them.

The griffins aren’t overly coordinated which is a blessing by itself, but as Bucky circles around he can see Steve doing the same. He stops, pivots, heads back the other way in an attempt to get to the back of the griffin, and Steve moves with him easily.

“Go for the wings,” Steve says, and Bucky nods, deferring to the person who actually does this for a living. “Don’t bother with fire.”

Steve lifts his empty hand as one of the griffins lunge at him, and for a second Bucky’s heart is in his throat, fear for Steve crawling through his gut. Then he’s throwing his hand out and Bucky can _feel_ the blast from where he is. Magic contort around him, brushing against his own, and it distracts him long enough that he narrowly avoids the griffin Steve had hit as it tumbles back towards him.

Bucky ducks the flailing wing, stabs up, and when his glaive latches on he twists it, lets the movement of the creature’s body do most of the work.

Something shifts behind him and he doesn’t think, just stabs backwards with the second blade of his glaive. He throws himself forward as the griffin roars in pain, a swiping claw narrowly missing him, and has to yank to get his weapon free.

He tucks himself into a roll and ends up somewhere on Steve’s left. “Now what?” he hisses as the two griffins advance on them. One of them rears back, tucks its head like it's going to spit, and Bucky doesn’t hesitate, throwing up a shield in front of the two of them. Acid hits the shield with a sickening splat and Bucky strengthens the shield as it starts to corrode under the strength of the acid.

Steve glances at him, bracing his feet, then looks again as a frown has his eyebrows creasing. “Is that blood?” he asks as if they didn’t have two griffins – at least one of them an acid-spitting archgriffin - closing in on them, hobbled but still dangerous.

Bucky shrugs, unable to feel anything but not trusting that in the slightest. “Probably,” he says, lifts his left hand, gauntlet glinting in the sun. He pushes his magic out in a sharp jab, slipping it through the shield and driving it into the archgriffin’s open mouth. The flow of acid stops and only a few heartbeats pass before there’s a shriek, a black blur plummeting down out of the sky to follow the noise. The griffin struggles, tries to close its mouth, but Bucky’s magic keeps it where it is.

Almost too fast to see, the Raven flies in its mouth, keeps flying until it comes out the other side.

The griffin sways on its feet then collapses, dead before it hits the ground.

“What the fuck,” Steve says as he stares at the body, trusting Bucky’s shield to keep the other one at bay. “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

“Because it takes a lot of power,” Bucky says as the Raven returns to him, slipping out of his corporeal form before he’s even reached Bucky. Smoke curls back around him and Bucky says, “Thank you,” before the smoke seeps through the seams in his clothing. A flash of pain as the Raven adheres himself back to Bucky’s skin, and Bucky can’t help but rub the spot on his arm before looking at Steve.

That small pain brings the others rushing to the forefront and Bucky has to bite back a noise as he realises he hadn’t dodged that last swipe. He shifts his weight as Steve’s eyes narrow, so he does the thing he does best – he deflects.

“Still one left,” he says, jerking his chin in the direction of the griffin currently clawing at the shield. He spins his glaive in one hand, widens his stance a little. Lifts his empty hand, fingers splayed. Magic builds up around them as he concentrates, and he hears more than feels himself say, “I’m dropping the barrier.”

Steve’s attention is immediately on the threat, though Bucky doesn’t miss the look Steve gives him, the one that says _we’re not finished here_.

Bucky drops the barrier.

The griffin charges, enraged and screeching. Before Bucky can do anything, Steve’s stepping to the side, swinging his sword.

The thing about griffins is – they’re fast in the air, agile. They can turn on a dime, using their wings to control their bulk. A charging griffin, though, is a different story.

Steve swings, and the noise is horrendous, teeth catching on silver, metal glinting red.

The griffin crashes to the ground, wrenching Steve’s blade out of his hands. Bucky has to throw himself to the side, tucking and rolling, glaive clawing out a line of dirt when he can’t move it in time.

It’s dead, that much is clear. Steve stalks – there’s no other word for it, purposeful and rolling, eyes dark. He pulls his blade free, crouches to wipe it clean.

Bucky knows what comes next. The harvesting, not letting anything going to waste. It’s a chance for him to slip away, to continue this absurd cat-and-mouse game he can’t help but keep playing. It’s what’s been happening for almost a year now.

Steve stands, sheaths his sword. Bucky lets his guard drop, trusting the super-human hearing he knows Steve has. Instead of pulling out his knife, Steve turns on his heel and heads straight for Bucky.

He could call a portal. Could whisk himself away, knowing that Steve’s unlikely to follow, knowing that Steve will only use a portal if there’s no other option, knows how much he hates the feel of them. He could save himself from the anger tightening Steve’s lips, pinching at his brow.

Something holds him in place though, and before he can break past that Steve’s in front of him. Bucky tips his chin up because, _shit_ , Steve’s taller than him now, and Steve’s hand is hot at his waist, pulling him in.

Bucky stumbles forward, barely managing to keep his glaive out of the way and catches himself on Steve’s chest with his left hand. He flinches back, not wanting it near Steve, but the Witcher’s grip is firm.

“You’re hurt,” Steve says, gravel in his voice.

Bucky looks down, shifts his weight off the leg that he can feel something trickling down. “A little,” he replies. “It’s fine.”

Steve’s face darkens and his grip gets a little tighter at Bucky’s hip. “The claws could have been poisoned.”

“Basilisks are venomous, not griffins,” Bucky retorts, swinging his glaive behind him, hooking it back into place.

“Could have been a new species,” Steve comes back, and Bucky arches a brow.

“Then you’d be yelling at me.”

Steve’s frown deepens and he lifts a hand, brushes it over Bucky’s cheek. The heat of Steve’s fingers reaches his skin even through the gloves, and he can’t help but fall still again.

“Steve?” Bucky says when the Witcher doesn’t reply, and Steve’s brows draw in tight together.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he draws Bucky in until they’re almost touching each other. “If you don’t mind,” Steve says eventually, and they’re so close that Bucky can see flecks of green in his eyes. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Bucky’s breath catches, then he can’t help himself. He pushes up onto his toes, leg pulling and pinching, and gets his right hand in Steve’s hair. The strands are so fine that they slip through the straps of Bucky’s glove without tugging. He pulls in close, so close that he can feel the hitch of Steve’s breath on his skin.

“You promise?” Bucky asks with his mouth less than an inch from Steve’s, then the distance is gone, and Steve’s mouth is on his.

It’s just a brush at first. Soft, sweet, a little dry. A good first kiss, Bucky can’t help but think despite the tug in the back of his head saying that it’s not the first.

Their lips part for less than a second, Steve sucking in a breath. Then he’s back, thumb resting on Bucky’s jaw, tipping Bucky’s head as the second kiss lands with _purpose_.

It drags something up, a deep clawing in his gut to get _more_ of this man, to take anything he wants to give. Bucky gives into it, leans into Steve, lets his lips part when Steve’s thumb presses down on his chin. Steve’s tongue sweeps in, hot and wet and purposeful and Bucky can’t help the gasp that escapes him.

The hand on his hip slides around his waist, pulls him into a warm chest, and Bucky narrowly avoids being jabbed by the edge of an armour plate. He tries to pull back, but Steve chases him at first, small nips to Bucky’s lower lip that have him smiling, pressing two fingers to Steve’s mouth to hold him back. Steve goes still immediately, eyes dark, that slit pupil looking almost human with how wide it’s blown.

“Come with me,” he gets out, clenches his left hand against Steve’s chest. His fingers catch on the strap of Steve’s spaulder and he tugs, takes a step back. Steve follows, head dropping a little. Predatory, waiting for the moment to pounce.

Bucky takes another step, and as he transfers his weight pain lances up his leg. He hisses, looking down, and before he can do anything Steve’s sweeping him up into his arms.

Bucky can’t help the squawk that escapes him, high pitched and undignified. Steve snorts, hefts Bucky a little higher. “Open a portal.”

“What?” Bucky says, still trying to catch up with the sudden change in Steve’s demeanour. “But you don’t-”

Steve smiles and it’s warm, a moment of sunlight on Steve’s face before it fades, hangs at the corners of his lips and he says, “Open a portal. I assume you know where I’m staying, go there.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, flicks his hand and opens the portal Steve’s asking for. He expects Steve to hesitate, however. Steve’s always balked at portals for as long as Bucky could remember. That’s not saying much, but the confession Steve had given him one night was something that hadn’t seemed like it was easy to get over.

There’s no hesitation, though. One step, two, then they’re through and Steve’s setting Bucky on a wooden dresser and crouching to look at his leg.

Bucky scowls, bats his hand away, and holds his left hand over the cut. It’s a stretch, but he keeps it there as he closes his eyes, ignoring the starts of protest that fade away as quickly as Bucky’s flare of magic does.

He hisses as the magic works, the pain of healing condensed into a few seconds, but when he pulls his hand away the visible skin is unhurt. Steve scowls at him, pulls at the cut in Bucky’s pants until he’s happy that there’s no remaining wound, then stands again.

“Happy?” Bucky says, and Steve’s eyes narrow a little.

“No,” he says, and unbuckles one of the straps across his chest. The first sword falls away and gets set on the dresser next to Bucky. Another buckle and the other sword joins it. “Why didn’t you do that first?”

“I had better things to do,” Bucky responds, licks his lips. A hand comes up almost without thinking, pulls at the buckles holding his glaive to his back. It loosens, pulls free, and Bucky leans it against the dresser that is his perch.

Steve pauses, looks at Bucky through his lashes, then undoes another buckle. The spaulder comes loose on his shoulder and Bucky reaches out, plucking the armour piece off Steve and setting it down next to Steve’s blades. “Like what?” Steve says as if he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t, Bucky realises. Maybe he doesn’t realise how much Bucky _wants_ him.

“Kissing the dumb Witcher who keeps following me, what else?”

Warm hands cradle his face again, and Bucky doesn’t blink, just holds Steve’s gaze. “Pretty sure you wanted me following,” Steve says as he steps in close. Bucky can’t help it, parts his legs and lets Steve slide between them, hooks his heels together around Steve’s thighs.

There are so many things Bucky could say, but he goes with, “What are you going to do now that you’ve got me?”

Steve stares at him for a second like he’s weighing Bucky up, trying to decide how honest Bucky’s being. Bucky wraps one hand around Steve’s wrist, flesh digging into the leather of Steve’s glove, and says, “Stop thinking.”

Steve does.

Bucky’s head is tipped back, and Steve’s mouth is on his again in the next heartbeat. There’s no soft beginning, no gentle request, just teeth sharp against his lip, wet tongue making its claim.

Bucky doesn’t put up a fight, doesn’t even _want_ to. Keeps his fingers locked tight around Steve’s wrist, hitches his legs higher around Steve’s legs. Steve understands, because of course he does, shoves himself closer until there’s no space between them, the star on Steve’s chest catching on Bucky’s clothes, digging into his sternum.

The noise escapes him without Bucky’s conscious knowledge, a rasping groan that has Steve’s hands dropping to his hips, catching, pulling in tight. Bucky slides his hand up Steve’s arm, unashamedly groping until he finds the edge of Steve’s glove. He tugs at it, bites at Steve’s lip when they part for a slick second.

Steve lifts that hand to his mouth and pulls the glove off with his teeth. Drops the leather to the floor. Gets his bare hand back on Bucky, sliding it under the coat Bucky’s still wearing. Does the same to his other hand.

He gets right back to kissing, fingers burrowing under layers until they find the skin of Bucky’s waist. Bucky wants to see how far he can push, wants to see what Steve will give him, how far Steve will take this.

It’s only a second to pull the scarf off, unhooking the broach keeping it in place and dumping it to the side in a hum of fabric. He knows he has to be quick, keeps up the slide of his tongue on Steve’s, pulls his arm out of the gauntlet. Magic crackles to life around them, static between them, pushes forward into Steve’s gasp.

It's easy, pulling his arm out of the fabric, tucking his hand back into the gauntlet once he’s free of his coat, keeping Steve distracted with his mouth. Steve pulls back as the magic fades. He opens his mouth but Bucky cuts him off with a kiss, short and soft. “Please, leave it be.”

Steve doesn’t push on that and Bucky’s thankful. A shove of Steve’s hand and Bucky’s jacket is hitting the wood under him with a thump.

Steve’s mouth is on his again a moment later. Bucky bites his lip, waits for Steve to pull him back in, and gets his hands both on Steve’s chest. The other man goes still, frozen right up until Bucky says “Bed. Now.”

He’s not expecting the hands on his ass, but they’re there and he’s in the air, hoisted up as Steve looks him in the eye. Any resolve Bucky had, which wouldn’t have been much if he’s honest with himself, crumbles at the easy display of strength, the way Steve looks at him like he knows exactly what’s running through Bucky’s head.

Hitching his legs higher, Bucky holds on, trusts Steve not to drop him and kisses his jaw instead, licks a stripe up the edge of it. Steve’s steps stutter, like he’s tripped over something, then Bucky’s sprawled on his back on the bed, Steve looming over him. “You,” Steve says, and it’s velvet covered steel, soft and silky.

Bucky puts his foot against Steve’s stomach before he can swoop in, says, “Me,” back. Steve’s hands immediately go to the buckles on his boot. Bucky’s always loved his boots, the softness of the leather, but now part of him hates them as Steve takes his time working his way down all the clasps holding them on.

Finally, he tugs and the boot slides free. Steve sets it down and picks up Bucky’s other foot, cradles his ankle for a moment before getting to work.

Once his feet are free, Bucky plants his hand on the bed and levers himself up. He reaches, curls his fingers in one of Steve’s belts, and tugs. The belt is shed, the knife it holds up thudding to the ground, and Steve crouches for a moment before shifting up onto the bed, leaving his boots behind.

Bucky lets himself fall back as Steve approaches, long limbs and a predatory glint in his eyes, grabs onto Steve’s shoulders and says, “Take it off”.

It’s more of a process than Bucky expects, but he sits back and watches as Steve tugs off pieces of armour, then the thick navy coat, then the soft linen shirt underneath. He can’t help himself as skin comes into view, pushes back up onto one hand and gets his right hand on Steve’s hip, under the drape of cloth Steve’s still working off his shoulders.

He slides it up over the cut of muscle, the defined ridge of Steve’s hip, encounters the flat, smooth skin of a burn scar, the raised pucker of a healed slash. Steve catches his wrist and at first, Bucky’s expecting to be pushed away, but Steve pulls their hands up, presses Bucky’s palm to the centre of his chest.

There’s a scar there. It’s all Bucky can think about for a second, magic slipping its leash and curling around them. Steve’s hand tightens on his and Bucky looks up, meets his gaze. There’s something unreadable there, locked behind a wall Bucky never used to see, then Steve says, “Bucky,” and it lances straight through him, cuts deeper than a blade ever could.

Bucky takes a second to look, props himself up on his elbow as he drags his hand down Steve’s chest, following the lines of claws, the ridges of muscle. He’s beautiful, still, the scars accentuating the body he’s worked for, telling the story of his life. He curls his fingers against Steve’s skin, and Steve pulls him in with a hand on the back of his neck.

Steve’s lips are soft again, against the corner of his mouth. Bucky’s not sure if he can take that, take the softness Steve’s offering him. He pushes, nose bumping Steve’s as he does, and Steve pushes him back down to the mattress without breaking the kiss. The necklace Steve keeps on, the symbol of his school, swings down, landing heavy on Bucky’s chest. It’s skin-warm, humming a little as Bucky’s magic flickers around them, and all-at-once Bucky realises how Steve always knew when he was there.

Bucky wraps his other arm around Steve without thinking, yanks back when the other man jumps a little. Steve pulls back just far enough to murmur, “Hey, hey. It’s okay, just colder than I expected.”

Bucky opens his mouth to call bullshit but Steve kisses him again, harder, deeper. It leaves him clawing for breath even after Steve moves to lick and bite his way down Bucky’s throat, distracting. “Tell me what you want,” Steve says, _purrs_ into Bucky’s skin, “I’ll give it to you.”

“You,” Bucky gets out on a ragged breath as Steve digs his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Hard enough to leave a mark. He hopes it does. “I want you, everything you want to give me.”

Steve bites again, nudging the collar of Bucky’s shirt out of the way with his nose to do so, but the groan still escapes. There’s no hiding the way Steve’s hands grip tighter, nails digging into the back of his neck for a second before Steve’s hands drop to Bucky’s hips.

It means the full weight of Steve is pushing Bucky into the mattress for the second Steve stays there, and Bucky wants more of it. Then Steve’s bracing his knees, and it’s gone again, Steve’s hands inching up. “This okay?” Steve asks when his hands get under Bucky’s shirt, and he can’t help how shaky his nod is.

“Just don’t take it off.” He’s not ready for Steve to see that yet. Not ready to admit what he did to end up like he did. Maybe it’s selfish, but he knows that he’s been in love with Steve since they met. And isn’t that the kicker, really.

Instead of doing something stupid like admitting that, Bucky gets his legs up and around Steve’s hips, slides his hand down Steve’s chest. He curls his hand, lets his nails dig in just enough to feel, says, “Steve,” can’t get anything else out so he leaves the word hanging between them.

Steve pulls Bucky’s hips up, effortless, and Bucky’s breath hitches as their hips finally line up. “Is that padding or are you happy to see me?” Bucky gets out, can’t help but tease, and Steve lifts his head, fixes him with a look.

“What do you think?”

Bucky grins, arches his back, pushes up into the contact. The hiss Steve lets out is shaky, hands gripping tighter, so Bucky does it again, squeezes his legs to pull Steve in.

“That what you want?” Steve says, voice going dark, dripping with it. It makes Bucky shiver, and he closes his eyes, lets his head tip back. Offers himself up to Steve any way Steve wants him.

Steve falls forward, braces himself on one hand, kisses the underside of Bucky’s chin, nipping at his pulse point. His hand inches up, splays over Bucky’s stomach, stroking the skin there before sliding down with purpose. He grabs at Bucky’s belt, tugs, and at Bucky’s wordless nod Steve undoes it, then undoes the lacings on Bucky’s pants.

Bucky hitches his hips up, waiting for Steve to pull the fabric away, but instead gets the heady press of Steve’s hand. He’s not playing around either, presses in firm, rubs, and the groan that comes out of Bucky is pulled out of him, unbidden.

He’s not fully hard, not yet, but Steve has heat running through him, want making him squeeze his thighs around Steve’s narrow hips, need making him rock his hips up into the pressure of Steve’s hand.

Bucky drops his hands down, both of them, gets his covered hand on Steve’s hip, hooks the other into Steve’s belt. A little spark of magic that has Steve gasping and Bucky knocks the now-open belt out of the way, pulls at the laces of Steve’s pants and says, “Stop teasing me and _fuck me_.”

Steve’s mouth lands on his before the last syllable has fallen from his lips, tongue curling in deep. It’s warm, wet, a little mean as Steve scrapes his teeth against Bucky’s lip, takes and _takes_ and Bucky doesn’t want to do anything but give.

The hand on him disappears for a second, then shoves in under his pants. It curls around his cock, making Bucky choke out a groan, rock his hips up without even thinking. The calluses on Steve’s fingers are rough against his skin and he groans again, louder when Steve rubs his thumb over the head of his cock.

It takes an agonisingly long minute for his brain to reboot, and Steve doesn’t help in the slightest, pulling Bucky’s cock free, stroking it slow and tight. He finally gets his hands working, shoves at Steve’s pants until they hang off his hips and Bucky can get at his cock. He strokes, root to tip, and the sound Steve makes is one he’s never going to get over. Then Steve’s pulling back.

Bucky whines, isn’t proud of the sound that escapes him, but he _whines_ , and Steve shushes him with a kiss before sitting back on his heels. For a long moment, all he does is look, then he tucks his fingers in the waistband of Bucky’s pants and tugs.

The leather is tight, but Steve’s grip is tighter, drags it down Bucky’s legs and tosses it- somewhere, Bucky doesn’t care. He has to let go of Steve in the process, but with the way Steve’s looking at him, it’s worth it. It’s _heat_ , pure and simple. He looks like he wants to eat Bucky alive, and Bucky wants to let him.

Steve reaches for him, tugs at Bucky’s shirt until his stomach is bare, fabric shoved high. Then he drops his head, bites at the curve of Bucky’s hip. His hands smooth down Bucky’s thighs, nudge them apart, settles his body between them. Bucky kicks one leg over his shoulder, nudges his heel against Steve’s back, lifts his hips as Steve bites again on the other side.

Dropping his left hand to the bedcovers, Bucky grabs Steve’s hair with the other, tucking it in the soft strands and tugging, demanding. Steve nudges his chin into Bucky’s stomach, then shifts his body down further. “You got anything?” Steve’s asks, voice ragged already.

It takes Bucky a few seconds to work out what he means, then he reaches out, and a jar drops into his hand out of nowhere. The tiny portal he’d summoned disappears, and Steve grabs the jar, cracks it open. Leaves it open next to Bucky’s hip with an approving hum, drops his head again.

Steve’s tongue is wet dragging up the length of Bucky’s cock, and Bucky can’t help the choked noise he makes, falling from his lips more in surprise than anything else. His back arches without his brain’s permission, knees clamping tight on Steve’s head.

There’s a pause, a moment of stillness, then there’s the faintest pressure against Bucky’s hole, a dry finger rubbing lightly, tapping like he’s saying _this, this is mine now_.

Bucky’s not about to protest that.

He groans, cants his hips up into Steve’s mouth again only to push back against Steve’s finger, begging without words. Steve’s warm mouth wraps around the head of his cock, sucks lightly, and Bucky almost misses when Steve’s finger disappears from his skin, reappears wet. When he rubs again, it’s firmer, and Bucky rolls his hips in a short circle, pulls at Steve’s hair, uncaring of what’s coming out of his mouth.

Steve seems to like it though, going by the groan, and it sends vibrations up Bucky’s cock that he’s not prepared for. He whimpers, curling his shoulders up, and Steve looks up through his lashes at him.

Then he hums again, deliberately, and Bucky shudders. He blinks his eyes closed, not sure when they’d become wet, then takes a deep breath and looks down at Steve. “Steve,” he says, whines, and Steve responds by pushing his finger in.

He’s gentle and Bucky’s thankful for that, because it’s been long enough that it almost hurts, rides the line of pleasure and pain that has Bucky’s eyes rolling back in his head. He drops his hand to the bedding, the left one, and claws at the sheets as Steve coaxes the finger out, drives it back in a little faster.

By the time he’s got three fingers in Bucky’s sobbing with each breath he lets out, broken little noises that have Steve biting at his hip, his thighs, anywhere he puts his mouth. He stills and the noise that escapes Bucky in protest is almost guttural, pulling out of his throat without Bucky’s conscious decision.

“Please,” he gets out, pulls at Steve’s hair and keeps his legs tight on Steve’s shoulders. “I want – please – c’mon – _Steve-_ ” he babbles, barely able to connect the words together and falling into what he knows, what he _wants_ , says Steve’s name again, and again until Steve’s pushing up through his legs and kissing him quiet.

“Bucky,” Steve says against his lips, pulling his hand free and stroking it up Bucky’s thigh. They’re still wet and Bucky can feel the trail that they’ve left, focuses on it, on the way Steve’s hips hitch forward until they’re tight against his ass.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, “I want – can I? Will you let me inside you?”

His cock slides up against Bucky’s hip and it’s hard enough that Bucky whines, rubs up into it. He wants it, wants _Steve_ so bad it sticks in his throat, and all he can do is nod, jerky. Steve looks like he’s going to protest, going to make Bucky speak, but he must see the look on Bucky’s face because he doesn’t say anything, just shifts his hips until there’s blunt pressure against Bucky’s hole.

Steve grabs at his hip and Bucky groans at the pressure, hooks his legs tighter around Steve’s hips. A shift of the muscles under his heels and Steve is pushing in – it’s all Bucky can focus on for five, ten, twenty seconds. He lets out a noise, more air than sound, and Steve sinks deeper, until he’s stuffed full, until he’s not sure where he ends and Steve starts.

Steve shifts, a twitch of his hips that has Bucky gasping, knocks something loose in his chest that lets him get out, “Steve,” and then, “please, _Steve_.” Steve works out what he wants because he’s leaning over, pressing himself against Bucky and pulling him into a kiss that’s hot, wet and demanding.

The pressure lessens, and another twitch of Steve’s hips has him sliding easy. It feels good, better than good, and Bucky digs his heels in, lifts his hips into the bulk of Steve, makes him slide a little deeper somehow.

Steve makes a noise into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky slides his bare hand up Steve’s back, follows a set of scars up his spine. He tightens his grip on Steve’s hips, does it again, a lifting roll of his hips that has Steve grabbing at his hip, pulling him in tight. “Okay?” Steve says into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky doesn’t hesitate, nods, grabs Steve’s lower lip with his teeth and tugs until Steve’s hips drag back and his mouth falls open.

He loses himself, then. It’d surprise him if he’d had the mind left to realise it, how easy he goes under for Steve, how easy it is to _trust_ Steve, but he doesn’t. He tips his head back, groans, and Steve does – _something_ , he does something and Bucky lights up from the inside, the slow, syrupy-smooth feeling of it burning up until all Bucky wants is _more_.

It comes down on him out of nowhere, the way he tenses up. It starts at his toes; curling, tightening, legs clamping down and breath pushing out of his lungs once, twice, in sharp little bursts. He claws at Steve’s shoulder, at the pillow under his head, back arching up in kicks and starts in time with the heavy thrusts of Steve’s body. There’s a twist in his gut and he gasps with it, the filthy noise Steve makes in response has him shaking, balanced on the knife-edge of pleasure. Steve says “Bucky,” and the world crumbles around them, the hoarse little plea everything he wants, everything he needs at that moment.

Bucky doesn’t want to surface, but he does, drawn back out by the gentle stroke of a hand up his thigh, the slow circles a thumb is drawing against the back of his shoulder. He blinks, lashes fluttering until he can get his eyes to focus on what’s in front of him, the dark scratch of a beard. There’s an arm under his head, they’re on their sides, close, and he craves the intimacy of the moment, craves the gentle touch of Steve’s hands, the smile he can see just touching at the corner of Steve’s mouth.

He blinks again, takes a shaky breath, and rolls onto his back. Steve lets him. Follows suit a moment later, lets the cool air seep in between them.

The only sound between them is heavy breathing. Bucky’s shoulder brushes Steve’s when he takes a deep breath in, and Steve nudges him back when he breathes out. Bucky doesn’t know if it’s the time to ask, not considering what they’ve just done, but he takes another deep breath and turns his head to look at Steve. He’s expecting that cut jawline, the sharp blade of his nose, maybe Steve’s eyes closed, lashes a soft curve against Steve’s cheek. Instead, he gets sharp blue eyes on him, pupils still wide. The words stutter to a quick death in his throat.

“I,” he gets out anyway, and Steve’s gaze somehow manages to soften further. Steve tips to his side like he can’t help it, curves into Bucky’s space and presses his nose to Bucky’s cheek. It feels a lot like an invitation, so Bucky forces the words out, stares at the ceiling as he speaks because if there’s one thing he remembers, it’s that bravery was always Steve’s gig anyway. “I talked to the guard captain. At Stoneridge.”

Steve doesn’t respond verbally, but one big hand splays over Bucky’s stomach. It's possessive even though Bucky’s shirt. The tan of Steve’s hands stand out even more against his white shirt, and his fingers leave shadows as then dent the fabric. “He told me what you were called. Before you became ‘the Captain’.”

That gets a reaction at least. Steve’s breath comes out in a sharp gust, ruffling the ends of Bucky’s hair. “Which one?” he asks finally. He doesn’t sound angry. He mostly sounds tired, like he’s defended himself enough from the sorts of questions Bucky’s asking. It’s almost enough to make Bucky hold his tongue.

Almost.

“The Butcher,” he says, heart in his throat. Steve falls still against him.

“What did he say?”

Bucky bites his lip. “That they’d been told a tale of a Witcher. One with a scar on his eye, who was minding his own business until he killed a bunch of people in cold blood.”

Steve’s quiet for a minute, the seconds stretching out for what feels like an eternity. “They were dangerous,” Steve said eventually. “I don’t know if you’ve heard much about a group called Hydra?”

Bucky shakes his head on autopilot, then nods immediately afterwards. “Heard of them?” he says. “Who do you think had me?” Steve’s growl takes him by surprise. Bucky twists his head to look at him – he can’t not – and presses his fingers to Steve’s cheek. “Tell me,” he says instead of everything else he wants to say.

Steve takes Bucky’s hand, holds it to his skin like he’s afraid Bucky’s going to pull away. He’s not sure if Steve should be feeling fear, should be feeling at all, but he's proven that a myth already, several times over. “Their leader liked to gloat. He’d send letters, urchins bumping into me, leaving the letters and trying to take my coin purse with them.”

Bucky couldn’t help but snort at that. “Sounds like us as kids, before.”

Steve’s smile is a little pained, but he nods, rubbing his cheek across Bucky’s palm. “Yeah, before.”

There was more history in that word than Bucky couldn’t remember, but he didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to break the... Whatever this was between them. “So, he sent you letters?” He prompts instead, and Steve’s eyes close.

“Mmm. Long winded ones about how he was going to take over the world, that sort of drivel. But across a few of them, he started to mention parts of a plan, and it didn’t take long to put everything together. Sacrificing townspeople for power, the usual.” Steve shrugs as if it was nothing, though Bucky bets that if he had the letters in front of him, he still wouldn’t be able to work it all out.

“So, you confront him?”

Steve shakes his head. “He was a coward, in the end. I confronted some of his goons, walked away when they didn’t, and the town labelled me ‘the Butcher’ for doing it. They never knew the danger they were in, and honestly, I’m happy about that.”

Bucky can’t help it, can’t hold back from tipping himself forward and pressing his lips to Steve’s. They’re warm, wet where Steve’s tongue had swiped across them, and Steve lifts his chin, leans into it. Takes over, though Bucky can’t be surprised about that, hand sliding into Bucky’s hair and holding tight.

Bucky surrenders to it, can’t help himself. He sags into Steve’s bulk, tipping forward until they’re chest to chest with only Bucky’s shirt between them. Steve’s hand slides up his side, under the fabric, and Bucky can’t help but tense. Steve just rubs his thumb over the cut line of Bucky’s hip, softening the kiss. His hand moves again, just a little higher, and Bucky doesn’t react, but Steve still pulls back just enough to fit words between their lips.

“Is this okay?” He asks. He’s not taking it for granted, Bucky realises – not taking Bucky’s permission before as permission now, and Bucky could kiss him for it.

He _can_ , and _does_ , slanting his mouth over Steve’s before pulling back just enough to say, “yeah,” before he pushes forward again, and this time Steve’s right there with him. The build is slower this time, less frantic, slow drugging kisses until Steve’s hand on his hip tugs, until Steve rolls back.

It’s easy to slide his leg over Steve’s, plant his knees by Steve’s hips and his hands on the mattress, kissing and kissing and _kissing_. It’s easy to move at Steve’s urging, hands sliding hot and heavy down to cup Bucky’s ass, grinding his hips forward, slow and steady.

It’s easy to reach down, stroking his fingers up the length of Steve’s cock, grin into Steve’s mouth as a broken noise escapes him. It’s easy to lift his hips, shifting forward, then back, sinking down as Steve clutches at his hips.

His head falls back, hangs loose as Steve fills him. Breath stuttering, shaking, as Steve’s hands smooth up his thighs, hold his hips still. It's not until he meets resistance that he realises he’s been shifting, moving in a slow grind with Steve pressed in as far as he’ll go.

“Buck,” Steve says on a breath, thumbs pressing into the divots of his hips, hard enough to bruise.

“Steve,” he says right back, presses his hand against Steve’s stomach, the flex of his abs as he tries to stay still. He’s beautiful, despite his scars – _because_ of his scars – his fighting life etching itself on his skin, and Bucky rubs his thumb over a flat line on his stomach.

“You,” Steve says, “I. Bucky.” Bucky flexes his hips and Steve stutters into silence, hands a little tighter on Bucky’s hips.

Bucky lifts his gaze, meets Steve’s eyes as he rocks his hips again, and again. One of Steve’s big hands starts to roam, dragging down Bucky’s tensing thigh, thumb pressing into one of the already-developing bruises he’d left there earlier. The eye contact gets harder to hold, like Steve’s breaking apart parts of his soul the longer he stares, so Bucky looks down, rubs his blunt nail right along the edge of Steve’s belly button.

Quickly the rocking isn’t enough, and Bucky lifts his hips, grinds his way back down. Steve’s hands tighten on his skin, Steve’s chest shudders on a noise, and Bucky does it again, then he can’t bring himself to stop.

One of Steve’s hands slides up to where Bucky’s keeping his left hand, pressed to his own chest, fingers curled in his shirt. Before he can pull away Steve’s coaxing his fingers apart, threading his own through them, splaying their joined hands wide on Bucky’s chest. “You’re beautiful,” he says, means it, and Bucky could laugh, would laugh except Steve’s cock is deep enough in him that he’s breathless. “Look at you,” Steve continues, and Bucky scratches his nails against Steve’s stomach, digs in where he’s got himself braced.

“Bucky,” Steve says, then rocks his hips up as Bucky drops down.

Sparks flicker out from Bucky’s gut, racing through him until it’s all he can do but let Steve take over, giving over more and more with each thrust until he’s sagging forward, sliding down and letting Steve do as he pleases.

Steve pulls him down with a hand on the back of his neck, draws him into a kiss and keeps fucking up into him until Bucky can’t hold it anymore. His head falls back and Steve’s next thrust doesn’t just send lightning through his veins, it sends it flickering out around them as his magic finally wins out.

Steve doesn’t stop, just makes a noise of surprise, and Bucky can’t help but look down at him. Steve’s eyes are wide, all colour drowned out by black, and Bucky shudders. “Okay?” Steve gets out, and Bucky nods, sharp, leans forward to kiss him.

The curl in his gut is slow, despite his magic sparking around them. He gasps, soft and wet, into Steve’s mouth, and Steve hums back, encouraging. He curls his fingers, gasps again, rides out each new wave as they build off each other, wash through him. Steve shifts his hips, and Bucky can’t help the sob, each new thrust bordering on too much as his body trembles.

“Steve,” he gets out, and his voice is wrecked, hoarse and shaky.

“Buck,” Steve replies, low, and he slides a hand between them, curls it around Bucky’s cock.

One stroke is all it takes. Bucky cries out, eyes jamming closed as he does, and his whole body winds tight, then shakes apart. His cock jerks in Steve’s grip, and Steve doesn’t let up, keeps stroking as Bucky shudders over him, coats his hand, his stomach, muscles clamping down. His magic flares, he’s vaguely aware of it, flickering lights and the rending of fabric on the edge of Bucky’s perception.

Steve thrusts once, twice, and Bucky’s mind focuses on that movement, then his grip is clamping down on Bucky’s hip and he’s grinding up, breath shuddering out of him. Wetness warms him from the inside and he tenses again, gasps at the feeling.

He collapses forward, braces his hands over Steve’s shoulders on the bed, rolls his hips a little and Steve tenses, clutches at him. His mouth is slick when he pulls Bucky into a kiss, and there’s little heat to it now, it’s sated, fond. Bucky relaxes his body against Steve’s, lifts his right hand and cups Steve’s jaw, tilts him down so Bucky can kiss him at this new angle.

“I missed you,” Steve says into his mouth, and Bucky’s heart skips a beat. “Every day, I thought about you. Wondered how you were, what you were doing. If I’d known about _hydra-_ ”

His voice cracks.

Bucky brushes his hand over Steve’s cheek, rubs his noise against Bucky’s. He can’t promise what he wants to, can’t promise he’ll never leave, but he _can_ do this. “You couldn’t have known, couldn’t have fixed it. They were strong, still are, and you were _fifteen_ , Steve. It’s better you didn’t know.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, and his lashes are wet. Bucky can’t tell if it’s from the conversation, or from before it when all that mattered was the way Steve moved with him, in him. Bucky strokes them away anyway with a gentle brush of a finger.

“Hey,” he says, soft, “It’s okay. We’re here, _now_. That’s what matters.”

Steve pushes up, kisses him, and Bucky can’t help but hurt knowing what he needs to do.

**

Steve had stirred when Bucky slid out of bed, but he’d settled with a hand in his hair, a kiss on his forehead. Bucky wishes he could stay with him, wished he _deserved_ to stay with him. Wants to crawl back into bed, push himself up against Steve’s bulk and get to know this Steve a little better.

But.

The truth of it is, Steve deserves better, or at least, he doesn’t deserve the darkness Bucky carries with him everywhere he goes. Their conversations, however brief, had made that clear. He still had work to do to pay his dues, and he still had to work out what to do with the bubbling feeling inside him, the one that pulls his gaze back to Steve over and over. He couldn’t do either with Steve there, protective and sweet and so damned righteous.

So, Bucky gets out of bed, puts on his clothes. He pulls a shred of paper out of the air, quill following it through the tiny portal, and scratches an apology out before setting it on top of Steve’s armour where he’ll see it. He grits his teeth, takes one last look at Steve, then slips out the door, not turning back when he hears a muzzy, “Bucky?” from behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like to be notified when i update this, hit subscribe, otherwise i'm on [tumblr](https://spacebuck.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacebck), though i'm most active on twitter!


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